


shape of my heart

by benito



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 02:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benito/pseuds/benito
Summary: Qu'zal was a sweet man.





	shape of my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leomundstinyhut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leomundstinyhut/gifts).



Her name was Xi’mara.

She was a lovely woman, Qu’zal had to admit. Short hair, just to her shoulders, and lovely lilac eyes, much like his own. She’d grown taller than him by the time they’d both been assigned mentors, and remained such as they continued to grow. She’d been assigned to a blacksmith just across the street, and the two spent much of their apprenticeships together, inseparable by the time they’d both grown old enough to leave the clan.

A finger ran over the ring that he wore. Not a wedding band, not yet. Just a reminder. A signifier that Qu’zal had already been promised to someone.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing through tangles and curls that never settled correctly. Would he be a good husband? A good father? Would he do right by Xi’mara? By his children? His clan?

It seemed there was more uncertainty in the entire situation than Qu’zal had previously thought. Especially when it came to the matter of love.

“Qu’zal?” His mentor called from the front of the store, immediately pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your mother’s here.”

“Ah, right, yes… I’ll be right there!” He called back quickly, as he gathered the mess of papers and books spread across his desk with fumbled fingers. After quickly hiding his work beneath old tomes about leatherworking, he smooths his shirt down and quietly steps out into the store.

“You’ve got dirt on your face again, dear.” Are her first words to him.

The exchange is routine, rehearsed. Qu’zal bends over so she reaches his head, quiet as she gives him advice on keeping himself clean, fixing his hair, complaining on how  _ short  _ he keeps it, chastising him about the poor condition of his glasses, reaching over and scolding him for keeping his shirt unbuttoned too far down, because, as she says,  _ “You’re an engaged man, now, Qu’zal!” _

He spends much of the visit in his own thoughts, quietly processing the wedding information she gives him (“… and the florist will be Mo’pilli, of course, she did  _ wonderful  _ work for Jo’teca’s wedding…”) while quietly going over his work within the confines of his mind.

His parents had come to love each other, he quietly thought as his mother continued on about her friend who would charm the venue to keep everything from getting wet. Even if they hadn’t necessarily felt so when they were married, living together for so long—growing a family together—had seemingly sparked something between them. They’d never even met before the marriage; it was a business endeavor. Even as they presented Xi’mara as his betrothed, they framed it as a blessing, the fact that they chose someone he knew so closely. And it was appreciated, surely. He much preferred the company of a childhood friend to a complete stranger.

And surely, he reasoned, over time he’d come to love her, just as his parents had.

His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek goodbye, then exchanged fond words with his mentor before she was off. Her gaze lingered on him as she left, and a glance told him that he had been staring back.

Surely, he would, over time.

\--

Hound mulled over the words in his mouth, trying to figure out the specific way to word his question that would actually get a direct answer from Qu’zal. It was quite difficult to engage in conversation once he started tinkering; he’d give indirect answers, if any at all, and he’d found that asking direct questions seemed to work better than trying to ease into the conversation.

It was silly, he thought to himself. Indulging in this…  _ infatuation.  _ But it was hard to kick. Qu’zal was a sweet man. He was considerate, infuriatingly so, sometimes, and more quick-witted than he had any right to be. His ears flicked down when he was thinking, and when he smiled—crooked, a bit imperfect, seemingly a motif of his—he’d show off a slight dimple that nearly made Hound misfire an arrow the first time he’d noticed it in battle.

He was a sweet man, and the longer they travelled together, the more Hound found himself crushing like a child. Until Qu’zal, he’d assumed he had outgrown such indulgences. Especially for people like him. He was clearly handsome in a much more delicate way; his features were defined, but soft enough that his bright eyes seemed to express much more than he was comfortable with. It seemed he wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was not only uncaring of it but utterly oblivious to others who used it against him. Hound found himself frequently stepping in between him and vulturous merchants and traders who seemed to sense inexperience with the world on his face. Worst of all, he always apologized when Hound chastised him for such naivety, his ears lowering in embarrassment before he’d roll his eyes and tell him it was okay.

Because maybe it was okay.

Qu’zal was… frustrating, yes, but his view of the world was so foreign to Hound. He believed in the good of the world, he was frequently willing to blindly trust in the goodness of others, and aside from a few instances, people seemed to act in favor of this goodness. It was as if Qu’zal’s presence in the world was somehow purging it. As if his steps were cleansing, his kind words contagious.

And they were. His presence around Hound was like a virus. It created a constant fluttering in his chest, each time he said something sweet, every time he looked at him expectantly, waiting for a command. The way he looked at him like he was the world when Hound would stand between him and an enemy. It was like a rot, a corroding of his heart into something more vulnerable, more tender.

He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

Hound sighed under his breath, as he set his bow beside his bed and watching the hunched form of Qu’zal across the room. He’d undressed already, only clad in an A-shirt that hugged at his shoulders—wider than Hound had expected the first time they’d shared a room. There were freckles on his shoulders, he’d found out one night that a group of scavengers attempted an ambush in the thick of night. Hound had personally tended to Qu’zal’s wounds, and a shiver spread across him at the memory of the way the drow’s body trembled until Hound placed a hand against the small of his back.

It had been a solid minute when he realized his mouth had been hanging open, words never quite making it past his throat. His brow furrows, the rate of his heartbeat picking up unexpectedly. This was ridiculous, he thought. This was the way a child on the schoolyard behaved, not a grown man. Taking a deep breath, he clutched the inside of his palm, nearly breaking skin, as he spoke.

“Do you miss anyone?” He finally managed, a bit sterner intended.

“Hmm…?” Qu’zal answered quietly, not quite looking up from his desk, but his ears perked up, which was enough of a sign that he was listening.

“From home, I mean. I know you were very fond of your town. Do you miss anyone?”

Qu’zal didn’t answer for a moment, and for a second Hound thought he might’ve lost him to whatever he’d been working on again. But instead his head rose, much like that of a dog who suddenly smelled something, before turning to him quietly. His brow was furrowed, his nose scrunched in the specific way it did when he was thinking hard. Another flutter spread across Hound’s stomach.

“Well, I’m sure my mentor’s not too thrilled at having lost his only other employee at the shop. I suppose I miss my siblings, too.”

Hound nodded, and opened his mouth, a much more daring question hanging at the tip of his tongue.

“… oh, and I’m sure Xi’mara is very anxious to see me return. She thinks I’m much too squishy to be travelling.”

Hound felt his response sink back into his chest, as another hesitantly bubbled at his throat.

“Xi’mara? Is she one of your siblings?”

“No,” Qu’zal responded with a laugh, smiling at Hound, “she’s my… well my betrothed, I suppose I should say. Once I finish my research and return home we’re to be married.”

Hound felt something new at the pit of his stomach, not a flutter, but something much more violent, like the beat of a war drum against his chest. He struggled to formulate words for much longer than he knew was appropriate, and Qu’zal looked on expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

“Ah,” was all he managed at first, before he responded a bit dryly, “congratulations.”

“Thank you kindly.” Qu’zal punctuated his words with that sickeningly sweet smile, opening his mouth to continue.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to make sure you return home soon.” Hound quickly interrupted, quickly snuffing out the candle by his bedside.

Qu’zal quieted quickly, his ears pinned back in the way they commonly would when he was being chastised. A look of confusion spread across his face, not quite sure what just occurred. Hound began to settle himself into his meditative state, peeking ever so often and seeing as his companion made glances back at him, his ears never quite lifting back to their resting state as he continued with his work.

Guilt pressed against Hound’s mind, but he found other feelings and emotions drowned it out enough that he could not bring himself to act rationally in the moment.

His tender, vulnerable heart had been rotting, and as he quietly felt an unreasonable sadness settle over him, he knew quite well that being left in such a state had caused it to fester.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Qu'zalteco belongs to me, Hun'dilorion belongs to leomundstinyhut
> 
> twitter @ andthejets  
> tumblr @ arkham


End file.
